


Top and Tail

by aspermoth



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Developing Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Heartbreak, Homophobic Language, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-27
Updated: 2011-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-28 05:19:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/304185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aspermoth/pseuds/aspermoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To top and tail a vegetable is to remove the beginning and the end; to top and tail the relationship between the Miz and John Morrison is far more complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Top and Tail

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains the word "fag" used in a derogatory fashion by one of the main characters. I would like to emphasise that this is intended to be from the character's point of view and does not reflect my opinions or beliefs in the slightest.

The Miz was bitching again; and Morrison, who was leaning back on a chair with his eyes closed in the hope that the self-proclaimed "chick magnet" would get a hint and shut the fuck up, was being slowly driven insane. In truth, he went on just as much as Miz did, but hey, when you're the Shaman of Sexy, it's your prerogative. Miz, on the other hand, was not. That's life.

Suffice it to say that he and Miz didn't entirely get on. Oh sure, they made a good tag team, and they could put on a pretty good show of solidarity when pressed, but they weren't friends. They weren't even _close_ to being friends. They were just two guys stuck together by default in the same dressing room, where they were now, and God damn it if Miz hadn't collared him for a ranting session before he could get out of his tights and escape.

Miz had been pacing the floor and loudly nursing his wounded ego for at least half an hour, now; any longer and Morrison would be forced to break his neck, just to put mankind out of its misery.

Having finished complaining about the ropes, the ref, his opponent, the crowd, the lighting, and the guy in the third row who was shouting too loudly, Miz was just getting round to Morrison's contribution to the match. It wasn't a positive commentary.

"And why the hell did you let yourself get banned from ringside, you dumbass? I swear-"

And that was when Morrison felt his last shred of patience snap. Even a Guru of Greatness can only take so much.

"Don't you have anything better to do that talk on and on about yourself?" he asked, opening one eye in a way that just screamed that he didn't care.

Miz stopped mid-flow, both walking and talking, and gave Morrison a genuinely puzzled look.

"Who wouldn't want to talk about me?"

Morrison opened his other eye and rolled them. Typical Miz.

"Can you at _least_ tell it to someone who cares? Go find a ring-rat. I'm sure one will put up with your life story to give you a blow."

Miz gave him a dirty look that he didn't care about and made for the door.

"You coming with?"

"And listen to one more word from you? I'd rather fuck Big Daddy V."

To his amusement, he saw Miz freeze in the act of reaching for the door handle and shudder theatrically.

"Thank you _so much_ for that, dickhead. See you next week."

The door shut behind him and Morrison sighed with relief. Jeez - what an ego. What an asshole, too. He stood up, yawned, stretched until his shoulders creaked with the strain, and equipped his trademark sunglasses. Now Miz was gone, thank God, there was nothing keeping him here and he could finally - _finally_ \- go home.

Except that Miz was waiting outside the door. Dammit. The cocky little bastard smirked.

"Can't keep yourself away from greatness, eh?"

Morrison resisted the urge to give him a nice friendly knuckle sandwich with remarkable success and focussed an idle stare on the ugly grey carpet.

"Can't very well get away from myself, can I?"

"You are _such_ a douche."

"Takes one to know one, asshole."

The smirk melted into a glower and Morrison couldn't help but grin. Winding Miz up was just too damn easy.

He leant back against the wall and peered at the still-scowling Miz over the top of his sunglasses.

"So where are you planning to go, anyway?"

"Go?"

"To pick up chicks, oh Chick Magnet. Where are you planning to go?"

Miz shifted slightly and hunched his shoulders. Morrison rolled his eyes.

"You aren't actually going out, are you?"

A brief pause, then the slightest shake of the head.

"Then stand aside and let the Guru of Greatness lead you to the Palace of Wisdom."

"And hot chicks?"

"And hot chicks."

And that was how their friendship started: with copious insults, far more ego than was physically healthy, and male bonding over girls.

~~~~~

The Miz was bitching again; the current episode of the Dirt Sheet was going nowhere, it needed to be filmed by the end of the day, and they were running out of time to go and pick up chicks. It was hard work being brilliant, after all. Morrison had rather given up trying to make him shut his noise hole and was lying back on his bed, attempting to daydream about something else; but Miz was making it very, very difficult. Partly because his voice was so damn insistent, and partly because he kept invading the daydreams in a very distracting fashion.

It was a case of like calls to like more than anything else. Miz was infuriating, annoying, big-headed, bossy, arrogant, and a bit of a douchebag, but he and Morrison just clicked together so well, like ego-centric Lego bricks.

The attraction thing, however, was a bit on the awkward side. Morrison had long ago come to the conclusion that if you wear big feathery coats with sparkles and enter the ring in slow-motion with a wind machine blowing back your luscious locks, people won't be too surprised if you're interested in cock as well as or to the exclusion of pussy. On the other hand, being attracted to your tag-team partner – especially if he's a self-proclaimed "chick magnet" – is about a thousand different kinds of uncomfortable.

"Are you listening to a word I just said?" Miz demanded.

"No."

Miz rolled his eyes. "How the hell are we going to get this done if you don't talk to me, dickhead?"

Morrison responded with his middle finger.

"You wish. Now get your lazy ass up and help me script."

"Tuesday Night Delight needs beer."

"Then get your lazy ass up and get beer. Then help me script."

And so he did.

Things started to get hazy after that, mostly due to the excessive quantity of beers consumed by both parties. Miz started a mock-wrestling match with him, and then they were kissing with what felt like no intermediate stage in between. But Morrison didn't mind because Miz was doing some _thing_ with his mouth that nobody had ever done to him before in his life and it was too damn good to argue about.

Somehow, they got from the floor to somebody's bed – he forgot whose – and then they were scattering clothes in their wake and then Miz's talented mouth was on his cock and nothing else in the world mattered. Morrison leant back and groaned, fingers pressed tight against the back of Miz's head and the touch of Miz's tongue driving him torturously mad until the moment when he gasped his release and came hard down Miz's throat.

Then somehow their positions had switched; Miz was on his back, writhing and hard, and Morrison was letting his hands do the talking. He ran his tongue across the tip of Miz's cock and relished the choked gasp of pleasure, the way Miz's eyes rolled back, the tight grip of desperate fingers in his hair. Miz didn't last much longer than he had; hips rocking, eyes closed and Morrison's devilish hands working out their idleness on his cock, Miz was pushed over the edge and came with a shuddering gasp.

When they woke up next morning with hangovers the size of the moon, Miz started – what else? – bitching, specifically about how this was going to ruin his reputation with the ladies and how while Morrison might be a damn fag, he sure as hell wasn't and this was a one-off thing caused by drink and stress and the alignment of the stars or some shit like that; Morrison wasn't really listening and it was making his headache worse, anyway.

"Will you shut up?" he groaned.

"Make me, asshole."

So Morrison did, cutting Miz off mid-rant with a kiss that – despite his earlier protestations – Miz seemed to respond to with much enthusiasm.

And so that was how their friendship ended: by morphing into something else. Something new. And something damn hot.

~~~~~

The Miz was bitching again; but this time he had a good reason for it, if nothing else. After all, Morrison had just cost him a match through rather amazingly ill-timed interference.

"We talked about this, John," he hissed under his breath. "When the ref's back is turned. _When his back is turned_. How the _fuck_ is that difficult?"

If they had been alone, Morrison would probably have kissed him just to make him shut up, but not in public, and definitely not at work.

"Come on, what's the worst that could happen?" he hissed back.

So what if RAW got another Draft pick to add to their bloated collection of Draft picks? What was one loss to the awesome might of Miz and Morrison? It wasn't even a proper loss, anyway: if you can't lose a belt through it, it isn't a proper loss. That's the unspoken rule.

"What if we get split up?" Miz demanded.

"We won't."

Moments later, Morrison was proved wrong. Horribly wrong.

It was several long moments before he dared to turn and look at Miz, and he saw that everything that could ever be said was written all over his face. He looked devastated.

Both of them had known, of course, that it wouldn't last forever. They knew what it was like in the wrestling business. Friends, family, lovers: all of them came and went like candle flames in a hurricane, flickering in and snuffing out in a moment. But sometimes, you couldn't help hoping that you'd be the exception to the rule. That you would survive everything.

In some ways, that just made it hurt more.

And shit, if he'd known last night that it was their last, he would've insisted they fucked a hell of a lot more than they did. He was gonna miss that ass. Hell, he was gonna miss the whole of him, which was something he would never have expected to think when they first teamed up.

He offered his hand to Miz to shake, but Miz pulled him into a hug instead (their last hug) and whispered in his ear, "I love you, man."

Morrison wanted to say it back, but what was the point? He'd ruined them. There was only one logical thing to say.

"Hate me."

A brief pause.

"Okay."

They let each other go. Morrison was pretty sure he knew what was coming now – he was no greenhorn – and turned slightly away so he wouldn't see it coming. Miz's foot drove into his belly and he doubled over, gasping for air, and Miz had him round the neck and was swinging him around and down and then he was on his back and everything seemed to hurt and Miz was yelling at him whilst the crowd bayed for blood.

Typical wrestling experience with added heartbreak. Yippee.

And with all the fun of them still sharing a damn dressing room until the end of the evening. _Hurray_.

Miz was waiting for him when he finally limped back there, of course. Miz was always waiting for him in the places Morrison didn't want him to be. It was like a sixth sense for him. There he was, leaning against a wall, or sitting in a chair, that cocky grin on his face.

Today, he was sitting, and there was no grin.

Morrison braced himself for the bitching as he sat down but it didn't come.

"You. Fucked. Up."

Normally, he would have disputed the claim until everybody in a fifty mile radius wanted them both to have their heads removed, but not today. Instead, he nodded.

"I fucked up. I'm sorry."

Miz stood up, shoving his chair back hard.

"Sorry doesn't cut it, John! We're over. I'm outta here."

He made for the door. Morrison thought he saw a momentary pause at the handle and wanted to ask him to wait, to ask if he could come with, but he didn't. Miz yanked the door open far too hard and stalked out.

"Go fuck yourself."

The door shut behind him. That was it. It was over.

And that was how everything ended: painfully.


End file.
